


Carol of the Bells

by alchemystique



Series: Bells-verse [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-12
Updated: 2015-01-12
Packaged: 2018-03-07 05:33:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3163136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alchemystique/pseuds/alchemystique
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Henry brings home another one of his Lost Boys. Only this one happens to be more of a way too attractive, way too famous Lost Man who makes a mean stir fry and looks at Emma like she hung the moon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Carol of the Bells

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly can't help myself with Christmas fic. I've been up since 3:30 this morning taking my dad and broha to the airport and this is what happens to me when I have to be up this early. I drink WAY TOO MUCH COFFEE and write xmas humor fic

The first text from Henry reads:

 _Just landed. See you soon._

and then, time stamped twenty minutes later, as she glares hard at the Range Rover trying to poach her parking spot and laying hard on the horn of the Bug until Rover moves on to less pissy pastures, she gets another one.

_Don't be mad._

Oh hell. It's been a _long_ day. Very long. The longest. Traffic has been awful, people are miserable in the way they only truly get when the holidays force them to spend time with family, and Emma has had it about up to HERE with Henry's father - a weekend trip to visit Neal in New York had turned into _nine days_ ("Hey, Em's, I hope you don't mind, I upgraded Henry's ticket home so he could see some more of the sights - New York at Christmas, you wouldn't want him to miss anything, right?") - and it just _figures_.

A million and two worst case scenarios emerge from the depth of her ex-husband memories, and she has a mild panic attack as she veers into her parking spot, cutting off a stretch limo that has _no business_ driving through the upper levels of the parking garage.

She crosses _tattoo_ off the list in a hurry, and prays Henry has the foresight not to request a lip piercing or any other appearance altering "bonding experiences" her dick of an ex might have come up with. (She'd spent the year before Henry was conceived trying out the entire ROYGBV spectrum on her hair because "Your boyfriend's in a band, Em, you gotta look the part.")

Then come the worries that Henry decided to drop his cello for a bass guitar, or he wants to quit school and join the circus or -

Her mind shuts that down in a hurry. Neal may be a _horrible_ influence, but she's got a good kid. The best.

Which can only mean...

_We have room for one more, right?_

Damn it. _Damn. It._

Her kid, patron saint of lost puppies.

\------

She's expecting a cute girl with her daddy's credit card, or another fifteen-year-old with forgetful parents - worst case scenario it's a runaway and she'll spend Christmas Eve plying the kid with cocoa and last minute gifts while she uses her old contacts at the bail bonds office to make sure the parents aren't total whackjobs before she calls it in.

Her son's a keeper, at least. Too sweet and kind for his own good.

So when she sees Henry waving her towards a dark corner and an incredibly tall shrubbery, she merely shrugs, her mind buzzing with anxious energy at Henry's new project.

Only when she gets there, finally, the shadow looming out from behind fake leaves is less teen-shaped, and more Tall Dark and _Fuck Is That Who She Thinks It Is_?

Henry beams as she skids to a stop. "Heysoyourememberhowdadgotmeafirstclassticketfunnystoryguesswhowasflyinginfirstclasswithme?"

"Evening, love," the man says, grin firmly in place as he eyes Henry taking in a deep gulp of air. "I'm-."

"I know who you are." She glowers as she says it - you'd have to be blind, deaf, and living under a rock not to know Killian _fucking_ Jones when he pops out of the shrubbery at you.

His grin falters, and Emma can't help the twinge of guilt she feels about the way one half of his lip tilts down in advance of the other side.

Well. Serves him right, anyway. Henry's probably spent the entire flight telling Jones what a huge, embarrassingly devoted fan Emma is - all three albums on vinyl (his record label is as pretentious as any hipster label has the right to be, but Emma kind of likes that), his songs perpetually soundtracking her days; both major motion pictures proudly bookending her DVD collection.

He's probably spent the entire trip thinking he was about to meet a raving "Hey let's ditch the kid and fuck in the bathroom" fan, and Emma is NOT that.

He's really hot, though. It's almost a shame Emma has any semblance of pride.

"Henry. Explain."

He takes a deep breath like he's preparing to rattle off the whole story in one word all stringed together again - Emma eyes him in warning, and her son pauses.

"You said you wouldn't be mad."

"Actually, I never did. You demanded it and I ignored you."

Henry sighs the sigh of a put-upon teen.

" _Killian_ was telling me how he just wants to spend a quiet holiday away from the city, without the paparazzi, and I...kindamaybetoldhimwehadanextrabedroomdon'tbemad."

Jesus. 

Leave her son alone for five minutes and he'll make friends with anyone.

"Only, of course, if the lady of the house is amenable. I don't want to intrude."

If she hadn't _casually_ watched his interviews five or six times she'd call him out on his manner of speaking, but the man acts like he was dragged kicking and screaming out of an earlier century. He is very much _intruding_ , with those blue blue eyes and the slightly-longer-than-usual scruff of a beard and mustache, the beanie pulled low over his forehead doing little to hide his identity - it's the middle of winter in New England and despite the scarf looped loosely around his neck she can see half his chest is still on display in a scandalously unbuttoned shirt - rock stars, seriously.

It's the accent, paired with the completely manipulative, incredibly subtle eyes, that does her in.

"Sure. Fine. The lady is amenable. The lady is _so_ amenable, the _most_ amenable to ever...amene."

The way his brow quirks up is at once horribly adorable and also sinfully attractive, and before Emma really knows what has happened Killian Jones is throwing both her sons bag and his own over his shoulder as he beams a wide smile in her direction, and Henry is leading the way out towards the parking garage, yammering excitedly about his trip and all that New York has to offer.

\------

Mary Margaret picks up on the first ring. "Hello!"

" _Don't_ freak out."

Her friends voice takes on an edge of panic. "I'm not freaking. Are you freaking? We are freak free."

"That sentence alone would beg to differ."

"What's up, Emma?"

"We, uh... well my plus one for Christmas dinner may have added his own plus one."

"Oh, Emma, please tell me Neal didn't squeeze his way into a trip to Storybrooke."

Oh _god_. Emma hadn't even thought of that. So much for her ability to think up worst case scenarios. "No! No, not that. Henry...well, he made a new friend. Kind of. Sort of."

"Is this friend of the cute, young, female persuasion? Because I'm always happy to pull out an extra place setting for burgeoning young romance."

Emma nearly snorts soda up her nose in the coughing fit that ensues, but when she's finally recovered she chances another glance down the stairs into the living room, where Henry is currently occupying her impromptu houseguests' attention with a _jam session_.

If Jones starts singing Emma is So. Done.

(He's already noticed the vinyls on her shelf, and the DVD's stacked on the coffee table, but he'd actually seemed rather surprised by their presence - pleased, no doubt, but _surprised_ , so maybe there's hope for him yet.)

"Um. Not...quite."

"Oh. It's not another runaway, is it?" Emma can already hear Mary Margaret calculating how many hours she has left until the shops close tomorrow on Christmas Eve, and how many minutes it would take to select the perfect gift for a teenager avoiding family on the holidays, and she feels her heart warm at the thought of the people she's found for her own family - the kind that Emma had wished for, once upon a time, and even if they'd come to her later than she'd hoped, she can't say she minds having them around.

"No. It's...um. It's Killian Jones."

Mary Margaret snorts into her ear. "Ha. Ha. Funny. But really, who is it?"

"Killian Jones."

"Emma, really, I don't...." her friend pauses. "Wait. That is your serious voice. You're being serious. Killian Jones. The Killian Jones. _Your_ Killian Jones?"

"He's not _mine_ ," Emma hisses into the mouthpiece as Henry laughs downstairs, his tinkling voice joined by a gruff, rumbling bark of a laugh that _does not_ make Emma's toes curl.

"Huh."

Emma's pretty much right there herself. _Huh_ about sums it up.

\------

"You seem rather...blasé about having a strange man foisted on you at the very last minute."

Emma doesn't hide her stare as they eye each other across the stretch of the bar - she's stirs her hot chocolate with a cinnamon stick and watches him as he tosses something in a pan with an expert flick of the wrist, because apparently he was just as much of a gentleman as he'd always seemed to her, and he'd insisted on cooking dinner. Her life, ladies and gentleman.

"Henry...has a way of finding lost souls."

He quirks and eyebrow at her. "And I'm lost, would you say?"

She shrugs, shooting him a wry smile. "You made friends with a fifteen-year-old on a two hour flight and he kind of adopted you and carted you off to celebrate the holidays with him. I think maybe you should examine your life choices."

The corner of his lip tics up as he drops his gaze to the stovetop, a dimple appearing as his hair falls across his forehead. "Now if I did that I'd have never been able to spend the evening cooking dinner for a beautiful woman and her lovely son."

Despite the absolute absurdity of the phrasing she feels a blush staining her cheeks - one he catches, if the way his smile widens is anything to go by. 

"Okay, fess up - exactly how much did Henry tell you about me?"

"I'm afraid not nearly enough," he tells her, turning away from her and reaching for one of her cabinet doors. And of course, of _course_ he's got supernatural senses and knows exactly which cabinet houses her spices, because other than making friends with teenagers the man is probably perfect. "In fact he made it seem as though you'd never even heard of me, which, now that I'm here, seems wholly untrue."

She feels a mild rush of adoration for her son. "I like your music. I don't know very many people who don't. Plus I'm pretty sure anyone who's ever been to a grocery store has at least seen your face plastered to a magazine or twenty."

"Ha. If you're looking for a critic of my work, all you ever need to do is pick up a copy of that hack Mr. R. Gold's magazine. Bloody imp has made it his life goal to rip my songs to shreds."

"Didn't you have an affair with his wife?"

He blinks up at her, shock etched into his features, and she considers apologizing (she remembers something about a car accident, and an insane lawsuit, and a whole host of stupid gossip about the death of Milah Gold. "Aye. That I did." He's still smiling, even after that, and Emma supposes maybe he likes her bluntness. 

They stay in companionable silence until Henry reappears, freshly showered and grinning from ear to ear as he takes them in - when Killian turns his back her son actually _wiggles his eyebrows_ at Emma, and she seriously needs to put an end to that kind of behavior. 

"Hey, mom, I told Grace I'd come over tonight and work on our chemistry project together, so I'm just gonna -."

"Wait."

She narrows her eyes, and Henry doesn't even pretend he's not _trying_ extra hard to look innocent. The realization comes as he's pulling on his jacket, and Emma sighs.

Her son is doing his damnedest to find her a man - and he seems to actually be doing pretty spectacularly, if the sound of simmering vegetables and the setup in the guestroom is anything to go by.

How in the hell had it taken her this long to notice?

"Be back before eleven," is what she tells him as she stands, rearranging the scarf around Henry's neck. "And for the love of god do not let Jefferson drive you home."

"Promise." And with a quick peck on her cheek he's gone, the door slamming shut behind him.

When she slides back into her seat, Killian is grinning, a wry tug to the shape of his lips as his eyebrows do stunts on his forehead. "He's subtle, your son."

"The subtlest." She should make herself clear now - she's not interested in dating, or sex, or any sort of emotional attachment, she should _tell him now_ , before signals get crossed, or he starts to think she's interested in him. 

But the thing is.

But the thing is, in the last four hours the man has whirled into her life like a freight train - he's done her dishes, and gotten Henry to unpack his suitcase in record time, and he's made her smile more than she can remember smiling in a single day in her entire life, and...

And it's absolutely insane. They're total strangers, but she feels like she _knows_ him, and worse, like he knows her.

And she's not afraid of it. 

"Now, since apparently my son has to go to the lengths of procuring me a man from the _airport_ , I'm gonna need a glass of wine with this date. You want one?"

"I'll have whatever you're having," he tells her, and she doesn't bother to hide her smile as she slides around him for the glasses. It's going to be an interesting night.

\------

Storybrooke is a tiny town nestled in the middle of nowhere, and Emma likes it that way - it's quirky, and cute, and for all it's busy-bodies she actually likes how tight-knit a community it is. 

What she doesn't like is the way all of Mary Margaret's guests go completely silent when she wanders through the open door into the loft. Henry and Killian trail in behind her, scarves and hats and coats nearly soaked through - somehow she'd managed to keep them from dragging her into their celebratory snowball fight, but once Henry had learned that Killian hadn't had a white Christmas in quite a few years, he'd fairly demanded that the man at least _make_ a snowball. Which of course had devolved into war very quickly.

The room bustles back into activity after a moment of silence, and Mary Margaret is in front of her a moment later, smiling as she takes Emma's coat, her eyes drifting over Emma's shoulder to the pair trying not to drip on the floor. 

"Henry, why don't you take everyones coats up to the loft? Use the coat rack, if you please." Henry smiles guiltily and does as he's told, collecting Killian's jacket with a sly grin. Both Henry and Emma know this loft well - after Henry was born, after Neal disappeared for five years without a trace, she'd found herself with a newborn and a distrust of the city streets she'd become so hardened on, and she'd ended up stalling the bug in front of the one stoplight this town had to offer - Mary Margaret had taken her in, and she'd just...never left Storybrooke.

Emma had moved out of the loft about a month after her friend started dating her prince charming and now-husband, David. There were some things a friend never wanted to see. Or hear.

"Emma's told me our Henry kidnapped you," Mary Margaret says to Killian as he glances about the room, and his gaze sharpens on the woman as she smiles welcomingly at him. "I'm Mary Margaret, and the only warning you'll get from me today is that my husband starts spiking the eggnog around five."

"Killian Jones," he says like he imagines no one in this room knows who he is. He shakes her hand with a smile. "Your husband sounds like a man after my own heart."

Her friend laughs, and suddenly Killian is being whisked into the fray, making introductions and winning hearts with barely a few words. She watches for a moment, fondly remembering the way he'd looked at her the night before, the way they'd talked until the early hours of the morning, the wine bottle empty long before they ran out of topics to discuss. 

He'd pressed a kiss to her cheek in goodnight before disappearing down the hallway to the guest room, and Emma had never been more disappointed in her life. She's surprised, really, by how much she likes him - his music has always been a part of her life, and she'd always felt the connection to it, but meeting him, actually spending time with him...it makes sense, why she'd been drawn to it. To his words, and the way his emotions seeped into lyrics and compositions. They're very similar, Emma and Killian - he seems to know things about her she keeps hidden under lock and key - seems to understand things she's never wanted to put a name to.

She likes him, and it's all very unfortunate.

\------

Christmas Eve is always a grand affair at Mary Margaret's, and this year holds extra special meaning - David announces (early, and without his wifes explicit permission) that they're expecting, and the celebratory drink quickly turns into many drinks. Most of the guests don't leave until late in the night - the mixture of booze, and congratulatory celebrations, and awestruck celebrity keeps them all in the loft for longer than they'd usually stay.

Emma smiles at David as he slides in beside her at the sink with what she hopes is the last of the dishes. 

"So, you do know Henry is expecting a marriage by next month, right?" He nods to the pair insisting Mary Margaret sit down (they've only had to remind her six or seven times tonight) as they scoop up trash and tidy up. 

Emma rolls her eyes, but David just grins at her.

"He's nice. I like him."

"So what, I should just marry him now? You don't even know if he likes me."

"Oh, he likes you," David singsongs, darting away from the towel she whips out at him. "Believe me, if you'd been drinking the nog with him like I was..."

He's still a little tipsy, and she shakes her head as he swings his way into the living room and whisks Mary Margaret off the couch, humming along to the Christmas music playing over the radio as he sways into a dance. Emma laughs, shooting her friends a fond smile. She wishes, sometimes, that she had what they do - trust, and friendship, the ability to be silly with one another like they are - she wants that. 

A moment later Henry is dragging her into the living room as well, soapy hands be damned, and they twirl for a few minutes before Henry does what he'd obviously planned to do to begin with - he practically throws Emma into Killian's arms, smirking as he slides around the counter to work on Emma's abandoned dishes.

Emma catches Killian's gaze as both their faces go red, but they dance for a while, one of his hands flush with the base of her spine, scandalously low for any _real_ dancing, the other curled carefully around her own - he leads her through a waltz while the Trans Siberian Orchestra blasts through the radio, and they only stop when David accidentally knocks over a lamp during an over exuberant hand gesture. 

He presses a kiss to her fingers with a glint in his eyes, and Emma pretends she doesn't feel the responding heat in her belly.

It's past one in the morning when they finally leave, Henry leaning heavily into Killian's shoulder as they walk back towards the car, and Emma can't shake the feeling of _rightness_ about the moment, as he wraps an arm carefully around her son's shoulder and shoots her a fond grin over the top of Henry's head. 

She shuffles Henry up and into bed, digs out her stash of "Santa" presents from all the secret hiding spots she hopes her son hasn't found yet (the false riser on the third stair up makes Killian whistle in approval), and when that is all done she curls up on the couch, tucking her feet up into Killian's lap without much fanfare.

It's strange, how easy everything seems with him - maybe it's just the holiday, maybe it's the weirdness of the situation - maybe she's just crazy. But all these little things that take her weeks and months to feel comfortable with while she's dating, they feel normal with this virtual stranger Henry has found for her, and yes, she is actually completely nutty to let it continue knowing that in two days he'll be back on a flight to - wherever it is famous musicians go.

"Merry Christmas, Emma," he says softly, his hands curling warm and light around her feet.

"Merry Christmas." Her eyes are drifting closed as she mutters the words back to him, and she feels his fingers squeeze at the arch of her foot before her mind drops into sleep.

\------

He's making coffee when she wrestles herself out of the blanket he'd obviously thrown over her the night before, grinning at Henry as her son makes wide gestures and eyes the Christmas tree speculatively. 

"Mom! You're up! Can I can I can I?"

"Coffee first. Full sentences. Mrrrg."

Killian's laugh echoes across the kitchen, his eyes bright as he smiles at her, taking in her probably rats nest of a hairstyle and the bags under her eyes. Henry makes coffee in record time, shoving the mug in her general direction as he makes a beeline for the very full stockings hung on the hearth - there are three of them, she notes with amusement - Henry must have gotten one for Killian, and it makes her chest ache happily.

She's nearly past the threshold of the kitchen when the cough behind her startles her, and she turns back to see Killian grinning at her, his eyes darting up to something above her head.

 _Mistletoe_.

"Seriously?"

The grin widens. "It's tradition, love."

And he's an idiot - an absolute idiot and a half - but she _wants_ to kiss him, has been wanting it since the other night when he'd bid her goodnight and pressed those soft lips to the apple of her cheek - she takes one long look at him, covered head to toe in flannel pajamas, slippers adorning his feet, his hair more sleep-mussed than usual. 

When her hand darts out for the collar of his pajama shirt he looks momentarily shocked, but it only lasts a moment before he is kissing her back - it's fireworks and revelation, and as he tilts his head and opens his mouth, Emma knows she's completely screwed.

They only break apart when Henry finally starts making gagging noises (ah, the joys of teenage boys), and she can't help the way her fingers slide across his collarbone as she grins at him. "Merry Christmas, Killian."

His responding grin could rival the sun. "Merry Christmas, love."

\------

_One Year Later_

David ducks his head down to grin at Emma, already reaching for another mound of snow to use in the Battle Royale happening in town square - a snowball whizzes past her head and she hears Henry letting out a war cry halfway across the park. The gazebo is in her sights, and everyone else seems occupied - David takes one last peek and gives her a thumbs up.

Emma streaks across the square, snow crunching beneath her boots, her eyes on the flag in the middle of the gazebo, and she's _almost_ there when she's knocked sideways, careening to the ground with the force of the blow, her hat sliding down her forehead and over her eyes as she struggles to right herself.

Killian grins down at her as he tugs the hat up over her eyes again, pressing her into the snow as he chuckles. Around them the snowball fight continues, decades of petty fights keeping the competition interesting - she can hear David calling out some battle cry from behind his little bench fort behind her.

"Remind me to thank your son again for introducing me to these people. I do rather enjoy them."

"Oh, just the townspeople, huh? What am I, chopped liver?"

"You're tolerable." His smile pulls at his lips, dimples appearing as his rose-red cheeks gleam in the cold. 

"Yeah, you're not totally horrible either."

"Then we agree. We can stand each other. But just barely."

Emma doesn't bother to hide the roll of her eyes as she curls gloved fingers into the front of his scarf and drags his lips down to meet hers.


End file.
